by Lois Ruby
“Ain’t never see a color person home so fancy as Miz Ophelia Simms’s, no, suh. Ain’t right.”
Two elegant men stepped out of the hotel they were passing, and Will spun Homer around and stuffed him into a space under the building. Will and James scrambled up onto the fire escape, where they wouldn’t be seen.
The men wore stovepipe hats and had gold watch fobs draped across their well-fed bellies. The one with white spats said to the other, older man, “Cyrus, I do believe that was a Negro person who darted under the hotel. What do you suppose the scalawag is doing under there?”
“Up to no good, you can be sure,” the other man said.
Of course, neither wanted to get his fancy clothes dirty, so they grabbed a delivery boy walking by, and the one called Cyrus said, “Young man, you duck down under there and see if you spot a Negro. You can be sure he means trouble, sneaking around that way.”
The boy crouched down and gazed under the house. James held his breath, sure that Homer was doomed. Then a ferocious dog began to growl and yip under the house, and the boy jumped back and told the men, “I’m sorry, sirs, only thing under the hotel is a lot of dirt and a mad dog.”
White Spats reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, which he flicked with his thumb into the boy’s hand. The two men walked on, having lost interest in Homer.
As soon as the street was clear, Will and James ran with Homer back to the Negro section. Safely across Hamilton Street, James said, “Thee was lucky, Homer, lucky that dog was under there with thee.”
“Yes, suh, onee I be the dawg. I see these two blue eyes huntin’ me out, and in my head I be hearin’ my houns back at Bullocks’. Then this growl start up in my throat like Hannibal, and a coupla sharp barks comes out like Daisy. You shoulda see those two blue eyes jumpin’ back in they head. Nex’ thing I hear that boy say, ‘Ain’t nothing but a mad dog unner there.’ Fool him, ole Homer did! Dawgs, they’s mush in my hands.”
• • •
That afternoon James and Will and Solomon met at Mrs. Ophelia Simms’s brownstone to plan the next leg of the journey. Mrs. Simms was the richest Negro lady in Illinois. She owned two bakeries and a pool hall and a blacksmith shop. Fourteen people worked for her. Her front parlor was all done up in brocade and lace. James’s ma would have turned her lip up at the showiness of it all. But Mrs. Simms and her family were good folks; they couldn’t help being rich.
James asked, “Solomon, has thee got the papers?”
Solomon opened the flap on his leather pouch. Lamplight glinted off the stark-white inside. “Miz Simms’s son, Otis, did up the papers like they’re a whole family.” Solomon took out the sheaf of parchment. “See? Mr. and Mrs. Homer Biggers, their daughter, Callie Biggers, and Homer’s mama, Mrs. Prudence Biggers—all free by law.”
“Or by forgery, dad gum!” said Will.
James admired the beautiful hand lettering on the rich parchment. He itched to have his sketchbook in his hands again. The image that had haunted his dreams through these fitful days flooded his mind again: the sketchbook pages skipping on the water, then bloating up, sinking into the creek they’d jumped in that first day out in Kentucky. “It’s fine work,” James said enviously. “We’ll be able to get Homer and the women on the steamboat with these papers.”
“Fool,” Will muttered. “You think it’s going to be that easy?”
James felt his hackles rising again. He’d not had the luxury of being mad at Will while every step had felt like a leap into peril, but now that they were only hours away from safety, he allowed the comfortable wave of anger to wash over him. “Person’s got to have hope, Will Bowers. Thee’s a sour-plum pessimist.”
Sabetha and Miz Pru and Callie were delivered to Mrs. Simms’s front parlor.
“Chicken livers,” Callie said, touching the brocade drapes and every one of Mrs. Simms’s glass animals on the tables. “Wish me and Mama and Miz Pru could have stayed here. The place we stayed was just two shades better than a pigsty.”
“Was not,” Miz Pru said. She couldn’t bring herself to sit in the puffed-up chairs, so she lowered her backside to the edge of the piano bench.
Sabetha said, “Notice anything different about Callie?”
There was something, but James couldn’t put his finger on it. She seemed right clean and a little taller, but there was something else.
Callie sank back into one of the brocade chairs and propped her feet out in front of her on a filigreed ebony table.
Shoes! Big, black, shiny ones covered her bony ankles, and those shoes were tied with leather strings that hung over the sides. She jumped to her feet, making an unholy racket on the inlaid wooden floor.
James looked at the shoes enviously. His own boots had been soaked and dried stiff, and the soles were worn so thin that each step scraped at the pudgy underside of his toes.
All of them were slicked up in fresh clothes for the steamboat trip. Loading up on an ample day’s worth of food, they started out again at dusk. Callie stamped her feet. “How do people abide these clodhoppers? They pinch me awful bad.” She clomped around in those big shoes, raising dust and drawing smiles from the black shopkeepers who swept the sidewalks outside their doors.
One more night, James repeated to himself. One more night on the road, and they’d be safely aboard the steamboat in St. Louis, Missouri. They’d sail into Kansas, where the Negroes would be welcomed by Ma and sent North along the Lane Trail up toward Canada and freedom. One more night.
Chapter Forty-Three
ELDER BROTHER WON’T COME
On Saturday, right after I got my Ronald McDonald curls cut off, Tracy and I went back to talk to Bo Prairie Fire. Rain was pounding the roof of the porch like horses’ hooves. A bucket in the corner caught a steady leak. The other residents weren’t around to show off their weird clothes. I didn’t miss the spooky fox martens.
Mr. Prairie Fire lay on the couch with an army-issue wool blanket pulled up to his chin. We sat on the floor beside him, and Tracy asked how he was feeling. Well, I mean you could tell just by looking at him. He was the color of bilgewater.
“Poorly, can’t you see? Elder Brother won’t come.”
“You have an older brother?” I couldn’t imagine anyone older than he.
“What we call the sun. Very powerful god. Dresses in smooth deerskin and red feathers. Travels east to west across the heavens. Goes back under the earth at night.”
He coughed, a volcano that began deep in his belly and shook him as if he were a puppet on a string. I hurt all over just watching him. When he caught his breath, he talked in spurts, like a faucet turning on and off. “Won’t come. Out today. Too much. Rain. Good for the. Thunder beings.”
I had a million questions, but Tracy said we should come back when he was feeling better. “Just one question?” I begged, and she said okay, one. “Mr. Prairie Fire, do you know anything about James Weaver? He was a famous architect from here in Lawrence.”
The man shook his head. Silver hair stuck out all around his stained pillow. I wondered what the stains were. I slipped in one more question. “Do you know Faith Cloud?”
His eyes rolled back in his head, which scared me to death. “She’s Turkey Clan. Too. Kin to Straight. Feather. Same as me.”
“Yes!” I replied.
He rolled on his side and drew his knees up to his chest. “Morrison,” he said, his face to the wall.
“Morrison, Mr. Prairie Fire?” I encouraged him while Tracy tugged at my sleeve. The rain kept on pounding.
“Jedediah Morrison. He’s the one. Took my home. My Lulu and me. Move to Indian Territory. Some call it—” He’d lost his train of thought, and I finished it for him.
“Oklahoma.”
“Sounds right,” he said, which brought on another fit of coughing. Tracy called one of the house managers over to keep an eye on Mr. Prairie Fire, and we thanked him and left. I don’t think he even heard us go.
Chapter Forty-Four
March 18
57
A PAIR OF CONJURERS
The Queen of the Delta ruled the river, beckoning all her loyal subjects aboard. Tickets in hand, James felt relief roll over him like a prairie wind, and homesickness stabbed his heart as he thought about Ma and Pa and Rebecca. Twenty-eight days and twenty-eight treacherous nights had passed since James had last seen his house in Lawrence, where Ma cooked up belly-warming treats and where Miz Lizbet, who’d started this whole journey, had been laid to rest. And now it was First Day, March 30, and they were only minutes away from boarding the boat that would deliver them safely to Wyandotte, Kansas.
James could already feel the crisp white sheets he’d sleep between this night, and the splash of hot water on his face and neck when he’d wash up for dinner. Dinner would be served in a dining room sparkling with crystal lights. Older folks would be dancing half the night away, and Will would find a poker game and set about wooing pretty girls.
James felt the springy wood beneath his boot as he started up the gangplank with Will. Just ahead, Homer carried Miz Pru. Suddenly she started to shake like she was in the grips of a raging fever. “NO! No!” she shouted. “We ain’t getting on that boat, not while I’m alive and kicking.” And she was kicking.
James had to jump out of range; lucky she wasn’t wearing Callie’s clodhoppers. He was just too tired to put up with one of Miz Pru’s fits this close to home. “Sabetha, can thee do something with her?”
Sabetha closed her eyes to gather strength against Miz Pru’s relentless tide, then tried to reason with the old woman. “Miz Pru, we’ve got free papers, hear? And paid-for tickets. A nice, clean bed’s waiting for you down below on that steamboat. Aren’t you about ready to lay down your head and rest to the humming of those engines?”
“No, no, no!” screamed Miz Pru as other passengers stared and walked around their sorry circle.
“Homer, set her down,” Sabetha ordered. She reached out for Miz Pru’s hand, which was jerked away.
Miz Pru was shrieking, and it took both Homer and Solomon to keep her from flying in the air. “No! You tell ’em, Callie. Tell ’em.”
James glanced at Callie. Her big shoes seemed nailed to the gangplank as her body swayed like the river. Her eyes were deep, deep in her head. James sensed that they were turned backward, reading something in her mind. “Callie?” He poked her arm. “Is thee alive, Callie?”
Quietly, the girl said, “Miz Pru’s right. We can’t go on that boat.”
“Cal-LEE,” Will whined. “I’m just plain sick of you.” The leather toe of Will’s crutch was worn to the rough wood, and the last day’s journey had been painful and exhausting. “If you had the sense of a possum, you’d keep your mouth shut.”
Callie looked up at Will as if seeing him for the first time. “You can’t get on that boat, Mr. Will, can’t, can’t, can’t.”
“Watch me do it,” Will snapped.
“But don’t you see? Miz Pru sees it, I see it, why can’t you?”
“See what?” James demanded. “What does thee see?”
Callie just shuddered, unable to bring the words out.
“What I see,” Will said, “is that you’re a superstitious, squirrely girl, ungrateful, too, and Miz Pru’s crazy as a loon. That boat sails in half an hour, and I’m sailing with it.” He whipped his ticket out of James’s hand and hobbled up the gangplank. Clunk, clunk—the crutch’s footsteps echoed all around.
James started after him, but Solomon stopped him with a firm grip. “Mr. James, we’d best listen to Miz Pru.”
James swallowed ripples of anger as Will vanished inside the boat. Its engine was churning away here where the Mississippi and the Missouri pooled together. Minutes ago the water had seemed calm and welcoming. Now waves splashed against the body of the boat as the huge side-wheels spun in torrents of violent water.
Miz Pru insisted they wait along the riverbank until it happened, and it happened only minutes after leaving port. A cosmic burst of fireworks lit up the sky like the most spectacular Fourth of July James had ever witnessed. At the same time, the ground moved as if some huge dragon had burrowed through the earth just beneath James’s body.
Someone yelled, “Holy Jesus God, the boiler must have blown!”
Screams from the river chilled James to the marrow as pillars of fire darted into the air. The night sky turned midday bright. No one on the boat survived the fire.
Chapter Forty-Five
HOLLYWOOD EXTRAVAGANZA
Mike in a tie! It must have been one of his father’s, because it hung just below his belt. He’s at that awkward age: too tall for clip-ons and too short for normal ties. But I have to admit, he looked kind of cute.
In all modesty, I have to say I knocked his socks off. His white socks. My hair looked very chic and straight, for a change, because it was too short to spring into clown curls. And I wore a new black dress, one that fit. My dad just shook his head when he saw how closely it fit and how much skin showed above and below the dress.
My mom said, “Don’t get nervous, Jeffrey. The dress is long enough to cover the subject and short enough to be interesting.”
“A little too interesting,” Dad said.
Mike, of course, nearly lost his lunch when he saw me, because until that night he’d thought of me as a genetically impaired boy. He swallowed a few times and stammered something about Howie and the Bubble-Head waiting in the car.
Mom and Dad gave me the usual pep talk: “Make sure you’ve got a flashlight in the car and the spare’s in good shape,” Dad said, to which Mom added, “Don’t eat meat or fish that’s not cooked through.”
“Absolutely no alcohol.”
“Remember, don’t dance too vigorously on a full stomach; let your food settle.”
“Honey, don’t forget you’re allergic to geraniums.”
Finally they ran out of warnings and said, “Have a good time.” Oh, right. It was like going out on leave from the army. Just as we were getting into Howie’s car, Mom called from the porch, “Oh, and Mike, see that she doesn’t eat any fire, okay?”
• • •
The party was a Hollywood extravaganza. Mike’s cousin Sarah, the guest of honor, was an old-movie freak, so we had blown-up pictures of Humphrey Bogart and Claudette Colbert and Cary Grant and Lauren Bacall staring at us from three walls, with black-and-white movie scenes flickering along the fourth. It was like an unending episode of Dream On.
We had to present a ticket outside the Doubletree ballroom at this fake box office made out of cardboard, probably a refrigerator box. I pictured Bo Prairie Fire trying to stay warm living in a box like this. Maybe that’s why he got so sick.
Then a guy showed us to our assigned table. They had him done up in one of those old Philip Morris usher uniforms with the dorky flat caps held in place by an elastic band under the chin. He looked so miserable in that getup that Mike and I felt sorry for him and snuck fancy morsels out to him from the dessert table.
There were yards of sprocketed film scattered on the tables, and old movie cans held pots of—you guessed it—geraniums. “I’m allergic to geraniums,” I reminded Mike as a sneeze crept up on me.
A DJ played tunes from the ’30s and ’40s for the first hour while we all stuffed our faces on foods from at least six major world cultures, if you count hamburgers and French fries and pizza as cultural experiences.
Everyone seemed to be having a great time, except Sarah. Her red satin dress was so froufrou that she could barely move, and she’d already dropped a hunk of smoked salmon on her chest and had a grease spot that looked like an eye socket.
The DJ began playing music we’d at least heard before—stuff from the 70s and ’80s—and it was pretty lively, so everybody just got up and danced in one big mob. Then suddenly the pace slowed, and “Unchained Melody” came blasting over the loudspeaker while James Cagney flickered against the wall in some old prison movie. Mike put his arms around my waist, and I put my arms around his neck, and we sort of rocked from foot to foot
in sync while the guy sang, “Oh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch, a long, lonely time.”
It was one of those gripping, defining moments that can make or break a relationship. Mike and I were exactly the same height. He smelled so good, and his ears were red the way they get around Celina, the cheerleader, and we swayed to the same rhythm with our arms around each other, and our knees gently knocked every so often, which was thrilling, and what could I do?
I leaned forward and whispered into one of his red ears, “Bo Prairie Fire is a Turkey, you know.”
Chapter Forty-Six
April 1857
A DANG GOOD FORGERY
“Will it be mutton, young sir, or would you prefer the poached salmon?” The waiter stood over James, who suspected this was not the first time he’d been asked for his choice. Mutton or salmon—it made no difference. Solomon and the others were in the Negro section of the boat, and James was alone aboard the Wilmington, here at this fancy table among seven passengers giddy with wine.
How would he ever tell Will’s ma? Why hadn’t he stopped Will? He could have; he was strong enough now. But his friend was dead, and James could never forgive himself.
He thought back to that first day when he’d seen Will with the empty sack of trousers that a strong leg had once filled. In Will’s place, he’d wondered, would he want to live with one good leg and one throbbing phantom limb to remind him of what he’d lost?
But Will had wanted to live, and live fiercely.
“The fish is excellent, young sir. Shall I bring the salmon?”
James nodded while the conversation buzzed around his head like mosquitoes, and the tinkling of glasses made his ears stop up as if he were swimming in deep water.
• • •
James was the first one off the boat in Wyandotte, but it was a long wait until the Wilmington disgorged its Negro passengers.
Callie joined him on the shore, carrying her shoes. He was so glad to see her, he could have spit into the wind! Homer walked in small circles like a dog marking his territory.
